


Beauty in the Brutal

by mia6363



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Blindfolds, Dirty Talk, Frottage, Gentle Sex, Light BDSM, M/M, Nipple Play, SORTA it's not actually that dirty, Smut, Touch-Starved, just some sexy musings, soft dom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 13:16:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18344432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia6363/pseuds/mia6363
Summary: For as long as he could remember, Winston loved all beautiful things.





	Beauty in the Brutal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Malapropian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malapropian/gifts).



For as long as he could remember, Winston loved all beautiful things. 

Beauty was subjective, of course, some more accepted than others. Wealth was beautiful. Power was beautiful. A hotel cut out of time and place… that was beautiful. Crushed velvet, skin illuminated by candlelight, impeccably shaped and molded coins made of gold… those were all beautiful things. 

Scar tissue, blood between teeth, and a body that seemed uninterested and unmarred by earthly temptation… that was also very beautiful. 

John Wick had been, and would always be, beautiful. Whether in pleasure or in agony, beauty was always draped around John’s shoulders. 

He’d always been quiet, that never changed. Observant. Always taking in every detail. The moment his eyes had someone, they were trapped. Even if it was a passing glance, there was still a sliver of time when they would be paralyzed for observation.

::::

Their first attempt was… technically a success.

After a long, _long_ trial of biblical proportions, the storm had calmed. John was still alive. A lot of other regulars are the Continental were _not._

John waited until just the two of them remained. He got up from the bar and sat at Winston’s table. If John had been testing Winston’s endurance, Winston would have told him it was a losing battle. Winston had endless patience. 

“You look well.” He did. Rest served him well. It eased the dark circles under his eyes and had bruises fade from indigo to goldenrod. It was just the beginning of what, Winston hoped, was _finally_ a life that allowed a little more leisure. “Have you eaten today? You’ve been here for so long, but I don’t believe I’ve seen you take a meal.” 

A younger John, when he’d still allowed himself to look uncomfortable in a suit, would have reacted to the implied _I’m watching you._ Nothing garrish, but still a reaction. An increase of space between them, a shadow of a deepening frown that smoothed into the usual stony indifference. 

Instead, he ducked his head. Winston moved over, and instead of taking the opposite chair, John slid into the booth. 

He’d never done that before. 

“I didn’t notice.” 

His knuckles were still bruised, the cuts healing. Moving slowly and with both hands visible, Winston reached over and gently ran his thumb along the rough ridges of bone, sinew, and tissue. Gentle as a lamb, but also the first physical contact he’d ever initiated with John that wasn’t a handshake. 

He’d known John for an age, long enough that Winston knew there were several ways to refuse advances, from a polite _“No thank you,”_ to a more direct punch to the throat. None of them came, not even when more of Winston’s fingers splayed over John’s hand. 

Romance was the highest luxury Winston could dream of given his line of work. All the material possessions, opulent decorations, and decadent foods were easily bought, acquired, and nurtured. But romance? 

Romance was as dangerous as it was rare. 

John’s other hand covered Winston’s. Not pushing, not pulling, just _holding_ him in place. 

“Winston,” John whispered, like he was praying. Or just feeling lingering aches settling in. Dilated pupils, or torn stitches? In their profession it was hard to tell. “This is not a no,” his grip on Winston’s hand was firm, “but not tonight. I’m not,” he glanced away, for just a second, but it was a massive tell. One that Winston was honored to see. “I’m not…” 

John’s throat bobbed. Silence bloomed from his lips instead of words. Winston smiled. 

“My dear,” and the _shiver_ that ran through John felt like electricity down Winston’s spine, “take all the time you need.” Winston withdrew his hand with one last swipe of his fingers over John’s knuckles. “There’s no need to rush a good thing.” 

John stood with a curt nod. Winston lifted his martini in farewell. 

::::

After any great calamity, the herds were always thinner and needed time to grow. The Continental was sparse compared to its crowds just over two years ago. Instead of a full band, only a few stringed instruments were appropriate for the occupants. The world needed time to recover. 

John needed three months. 

This time John was fully healed, not a bruise left on his body. Winston had been at the bar, the hour late enough that a sting lingered behind every blink. John appeared between breaths, a large palm on the small of Winston’s back that had Winston smiling before he even turned around. 

“Good evening, Jonathan.” Winston turned, his elbow resting on the bar. “Who knew there was such a handsome face under all the blood and bruises?” Winston winked. “I’m joking, of course. You’re one of the lucky souls who looks wonderful when they’re well and when they’re against the ropes.” 

It was charming to witness the moments of hesitation after the compliment. The staggered remembrance of the _finer_ things in life. 

“Good evening, Winston.” The bartender slid John a bourbon and made herself scarce. _Good girl,_ Winston thought before he returned his attention to the man beside him. John tugged on Winston’s sleeve, one small pull before Winston was immediately released. “I don’t know what you want.” 

“I want many things, Jonathan. A lot of which I’d prefer to discuss in a more private space.” Winston tilted his head to the side, waving his fingers in the air with whimsical nonchalonce. “What I can say is that I enjoy your company.” 

John, bless his heart, glanced over Winston’s shoulder, at the few people left in the bar. 

“I reserved a room for tonight.” 

John’s voice had dropped off into the a whisper by the end. Winston grinned, chasing the gluttonous thrill that bubbled beneath his skin. 

“Wonderful,” Winston purred and held out his arm. “Lead the way, Jonathan.” 

It was a quick elevator ride, a brisk walk, and finally a gently closed door. The room was beautiful. Every room at the Continental was beautiful. Winston, per his tastes, felt right at home among decadent beauty. John was a wolf, on edge when afforded the slightest luxury. Strange, considering the man’s house had been modern and sleek in its own right, but there were some things you couldn’t change. 

_There’s no taking the wild out of a wild animal._

“What we do tonight can be isolated. If you come to me again,” Winston shrugged off his suit jacket, “I don’t share.” 

“You’d want to be exclusive.” 

Winston rolled up his shirt sleeves until they were just pushed above his elbow. 

“Absolutely.” 

John moved first. This wasn’t a surprise, a man like John knew action and one method of control was initiation. His hands cupped Winston’s face, his fingers long and strong, and then Winston was kissed. Well, more like devoured. He wouldn’t have minded, he’d enjoyed the rougher side of sex a few times, but John was frowning through the entire exercise. 

“Sh,” Winston slowed them down, his thumb rubbing a hard line down the back of John’s neck. “When I kiss my partners, I don’t enjoy them frowning,” he kissed the corner of John’s mouth. “This isn’t a fight, at least, to my knowledge it’s not.” 

A soft huff of a laugh fanned out against Winston’s cheek. John’s shoulders lowered.

“I’m not fighting you.” 

Winston hummed. 

“Good to know.” 

This time it was Winston who cupped John’s cheek, chasing the flush with his thumb. To call it a blush wouldn’t be accurate. Men like John Wick didn’t blush, but the body still had reactions that couldn’t be trained out of it, like blood rushing to the skin, pupils dilating, and the soft part of lips that were a silent request for _more, please._

Winston let his hand fall to John’s shoulder, to feel the muscles there, to move down to his waist. To the more unobservant, John was fine. To Winston, he froze, not moving, scarcely breathing. Winston kept his hand where it was, fingers spreading along John’s hip, and stilled. The flush darkened across John’s cheek, a flash of anger. Embarrassment. 

“Jonathan, I know it’s not within your character to be talkative, but I will need some words from you if you’d like me to continue.” John exhaled harshly and the worry lines between his brows deepend. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know that.” John shuddered, shoulders curling inward. “I just need to get used to it.” 

Ah. Whatever was left of Winston’s heart softened. 

“Take your time.” 

The first time was slow. It was a lot of kissing, soft and tender until John melted against the mattress, until he was shaking, his fingers pulling Winston, barely making a sound but every shivering exhale a _please_ that Winston was happy to answer. It was a careful dance, a few steps forward, half a step back, sometimes stopping to figure out a new boundary. John was direct with things he didn’t like. _Don’t pull my hair, don’t touch my knees, don’t hit._ He rarely _asked_ for the things he really wanted. Winston wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment, if John had forgotten, or if he never really had to _know_ in the first place.

Gentle. 

He liked it gentle. Sensual. John didn’t need a firm hand. He had firm hands all on his own. Winston wondered if that was a common assumption, that men like John craved violence in all corners of their life. Watching John shudder at the lightest drag of fingers down his arm…

Winston knew better. 

“You’re doing very well, Jonathan.” 

The more clothes Winston eased John out of, the more John shook. Any time Winston would withdraw, he’d growl out a _keep going._ Never with a _please._ Please would be asking. As long as he left that out, then he was _telling,_ though they both knew that John could never truly _tell_ Winston to do anything. 

John’s shirt hung open. Winston could tell by how sensitive he was from just a removed shirt that his trousers would have to wait for another time. Winston slid his leg between John’s as he kissed down his neck, soft, open-mouthed drags. He’d try a lick, a light suck, and would back off when John’s grip would tighten, his throat bobbing. When Winston dragged his thumb over John’s nipple, John’s hips stuttered up, rubbing his erection against Winston’s thigh. 

“Sorry,” John gasped. 

“Don’t be,” Winston grinned against John’s chest, “take what you need.” John whimpered, soft and barely-there, rolling his hips as Winston sighed dreamily. “That’s it.” 

That evening, John came silently when Winston had mouthed over his neck and growled, “Good boy.” 

Winston’s teeth ached at the sight of the minute shudder followed by utter relaxation. Yet again, John Wick was beautiful at all angles, even in pleasure. His hair spilled against the cream sheets like oil, his eyes were half-lidded, lazy, his mouth was slack, not smiling, not frowning, and his cheeks were painted in delicate hues of pink. 

“Exclusive.” Winston nearly missed it, the word that was not a question but a firm declaration. He hummed, having sat next to John to run his fingers through his hair, easing him through the aftershocks. Winston, hummed, a question and ask for repetition, when John rolled over, his long legs caging Winston’s hips. “I said, _exclusive.”_

The very last breath of the word burned across Winston’s lips moments before John kissed him, strong fingers sliding down the front of Winston’s pants. 

::::

There was beauty in the slow burn, in the methodical retracing, relearning, and undoing of habits and creating new ones. It was nearly a year before John ever allowed his back to be to Winston, and that had been in a sunken bath. Massaging John’s scalp, having his head tilt back, his eyes glassy with decadent peace… 

It was beautiful.

A different kind of beauty than how John was laid out currently. 

Black cloth blocked John’s vision, and red ropes kept his wrists tied, loosely, from the bedposts. Sweat and splashes of his own come shimmered on his abdomen. His lips were bitten red, from attempts at keeping quiet. _What a sight,_ Winston thought, leaning on one of the bed posts and admiring his work. 

“Winston,” John heaved the name out, a curse and a divine offering, “ _Winston.”_

“I know, I know,” Winston placated, dragging his fingers down John’s shin. “I’ve missed you too. You could do with a little more patience, Jonathan.” 

John had torn _two_ buttons off Winston’s jacket due to his impatience. Eagerness, if Winston was being romantic. And he _was_ feeling rather romantic as he joined John on the bed, kissing his hip. Winston smoothed his palms under John’s thighs, tempted to keep him hovering on edge for another hour, breathless and still _so good_ to remain restrained for Winston. 

_Another time, perhaps,_ Winston thought as he slipped two fingers inside John easily. 

John’s back arched and the red ropes strained against the bedposts. Spread out on the bed like this, grinding down on Winston’s fingers with a startled and hungry delight… he was somewhere between the obscene and the celestial. That was another beautiful part of John, his refusal, just through existence, to be drawn in black and white. 

“Look at you,” Winston smiled at the shudder that quaked through John’s body at his voice. John was modest about the beauty within his body. Winston had no such modesty, and he knew that his voice _worked_ for seduction. He had no problems exploiting it ruthlessly. “I’m spoiled, seeing you like this.” 

A wrecked sound fell from John’s lips. Winston pressed his thumb at the base of John’s cock as he slicked himself up with his free hand. 

“Such a sight belongs in a museum, kept behind glass, meant to inspire everyone who gets to look.” John shuddered. Winston’s lips pulled back, half a smile, half an exposure of teeth like a beast in the dark. “You like that?” Winston’s cock caught on John’s rim and he rolled his hips, not dipping in but teasing it until John swore a foul string of expletives that had Winston’s skin tightening. “Strung up like this, on display for everyone to look but for _no one_ to touch. No one but me.” 

He left off the _of course_ as he pushed into John, stealing both of their breath with one thrust. John’s mouth went slack and he moaned, nothing keening and high-pitched, but a moan nonetheless. It rumbled in his chest, breathy, and still quiet. Winston pulled John’s hips, lifting him up and relishing in how John’s neck fell back, his arms tense against the ropes, his scarred body a dissonant image against silk sheets. 

“You’re beautiful,” Winston moved his hips to the rhythm of John’s shallow breaths, “words don’t do you justice, Jonathan.” 

He was close. Winston knew the signs, almost better than he knew them for himself. John’s arms trembled, his hips stuttered, falling out of rhythm as he lost control. John twisted his wrists and grunted. The ropes fell away as John’s legs bracketed around Winston’s waist and locked him in, yanking him forward and deeper. John tore off his blindfold. 

Dark eyes trapped him. A gasp was strangled from Winston, his entire being frozen as he fell into those eyes. His pleasure became an eternal agony, hinged, waiting, until finally John’s eyes flickered shut. He came, quietly, and dragged Winston down with him. 

Before Winston could hit his jaw on the bed or John’s collarbone, he was caught. Firmly. A hand under his arm, and then quickly repositioned until Winston laid on his side. 

He’d always have the quicker reflexes, even when his body still shivered from the aftershocks. Winston tapped his fingers on John’s ribs, the tips of his fingers numb. 

“Exquisite.” Winston caught John’s chin between his fingers. His thumb traced the whisper of a smile moments before he drew him in for a kiss. “Absolutely exquisite.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I WAS going to write more Kirkstock, then my friend and I watched John Wick 2, then I talked to Mal, and then THIS happened. Uhhhh sorry not sorry? Ian McShane is a fucking SNACK so I’m here for anything involving him. And uhhhhhhh I was kind of surprised I didn’t see more of this pairing in the tag?
> 
> Mal, I hope you like it! 
> 
> Another rare to add to the rare bin.
> 
> I’ll still be active on tumblr for the time being, but there are other ways to find me. [**Here**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/about) you can see a little breakdown of other places to find me and the other things I do in relation to these fics (journals/behind the scenes, playlists, head canons). [**So click on over** ](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/about)to get the full rundown!


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